


Bare

by triforcelegends8



Series: Intoxicated [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John Is a Psycho, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triforcelegends8/pseuds/triforcelegends8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a call from Mycroft to meet him. Does he know?<br/>Sherlock finds a way to get to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the delay, I really did not like writing this chapter. But, oh well, I finally finished it! :D
> 
> I will be gone in two days for a week and will not be able to post anything between that time, but I will do my best to write up another chapter, though no promises on an update the day I get back. :P Happy Reading! ^^
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at otakuloki.tumblr.com for updates! ^^

Once John had finished Sherlock and himself, he had fallen asleep in the man’s bed like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t Sherlock’s rapist, but a lover. He was facing away from Sherlock and his breathing was a constant rhythm letting the detective know he was really asleep.

Sherlock wasn’t able to go the sleep. John had raped him again and he felt more helpless than last time. _I just bloody hate you!_ The words ran through his mind over and over. He was rather thankful he was able to focus on those words instead of the act in which he was force to take part in. He was completely numb, and didn’t even feel his come on his stomach when he climaxed. He didn’t feel when John bit him on his neck, leaving a nasty, bruised hickey. As if Sherlock was John’s property, as if the man controlled him.

In a way it was true. John controlled him emotionally. He could make him feel fear, sadness, hopelessness, or make him not feel at all. And all the man had to do was stand near him. The feelings were much more intense when he was naked, his cock hard and throbbing inside him, thrusting relentlessly in and out of the sleuth’s bare and bruised arse. How John could completely rob Sherlock of happiness was commendable.

Sherlock didn’t have the energy to get back at John. He was completely numb around him, how could he hope to take revenge on him? He turned over, his back to John and him facing the door to his room, and sighed. He considered his options of what to do.

Given that Lestrade already knew something was off between the two, Sherlock could very well tell him. But that would mean he would have to get away from John long enough to explain it to the man because he would definitely want to be in the flesh to hear the detective’s tale. If John did end up within the custody for the police, there was no guarantee he would be found guilty on trial, if he was even put on trial. And if he were to be found guilty, Sherlock would have to undergo all sorts of tests to prove that he had indeed been raped. That was not something he was looking forward to. And even if John was found guilty, he would only be in jail for a time and would no doubt want to come back and teach Sherlock another lesson.

Unless of course Mycroft got involved. Sherlock winced at the thought. He had never depended on his brother for anything so… personal since he was a boy. He didn’t want to seem like he actually needed his brother for anything, but if that was the case here, there wasn’t much he could do about needing him this time. Mycroft might even already know and is just waiting for Sherlock’s word that he can intervene. The elder brother had his ways of knowing things, usually via camera, and always did his best to help Sherlock, petty arguments aside.

But something else in Sherlock wanted something other than justice for John. A more primal need. A need for revenge. He couldn’t very well just let the police or Mycroft take care of the man without having had his vengeance. The darker side of Sherlock would not have it. But what could he do exactly to take his revenge?

Sherlock wracked his brain for possible ways to get back at John. Not physically, but mentally. Psychologically. But how? Suddenly, a light went on in Sherlock’s mind. John might be sick, but that didn’t mean he was mentally indestructible. The war could still have an effect on him. Sherlock had heard John having dreams, tossing and turning in his bed and waking up with his breathing fast, his bad leg and shoulder hurting more than usual, and him not being able to sleep for the rest of the night. The sleuth smiled manically.

Plans already forming in his mind, he very cautiously got up from his spot on the bed, careful not to wake John. He withdrew from his room as quietly as he could, given his loss of energy from John’s more recent actions on him. Once he was out of his room, he made a beeline for the kitchen, made a quick cup of tea, and went to settle himself on the couch. John would most likely be awake soon.

Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed when a groggy and very sleepy looking John emerged from the bedroom. He was scratching his head with one hand while the other was hanging lazily at his side. His eyes roamed the flat before focusing on Sherlock, who looked rather happy with himself. On seeing the man, John dropped his hand from his head and folded his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes.

“What’s that look for?” he asked as he neared the dark-haired man.

“What look?” Sherlock asked innocently.

John rolled his eyes and said, “ _That_ look. That smug look on your face… What are you up to?” he asked warily.

“Nothing at all,” replied the detective with a confused smile.

“Don’t play like that, Sherlock. What’s going on?” John asked, looking around the flat for… something, anything, which would give away the taller man’s intentions.

“Nothing, John. I promise you,” the other man said with a sip of his tea. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ve got a question for you.” he said, setting his tea down.

Now hesitant and leery, John crossed the space between the two and sat on the couch very close to Sherlock. Expecting the dark-haired man to seem more fearful of him, John was struck when Sherlock actually smiled at him. His eyes were easy and the smile was light, letting the sandy-haired man know that Sherlock was absolutely calm.

“…What is it?” John asked warily.

Sherlock’s smile stretched wide and piranha like across his face as he asked, “What was going through your head at the time when you killed those poor men in the war?”

John’s whole body visibly flinched and his face cringed when Sherlock asked his question. He turned to the other man and glared at him. He was still smiling at John and looked completely at ease. It made John furious.

“What’s wrong, John? Do you remember them? Their screams of fear and cries of pain? Do you remember when you were shot? Did you shoot the man back? Did you kill him? Torture him? _Rape_ him? How about the men you commanded, _Captain_? Did you rape the-“

John’s hands shot out from where they were resting on his legs and wrapped around Sherlock’s neck, forcing the man to make a choked sound in the back of his throat. The sandy-haired man dug his fingers into the other man’s hyoid as his face contorted into a snarl. Sherlock, on the other hand, was gasping in tight, strangled breaths and had closed his eyes to concentrate on trying to breathe through John’s grip on his throat.

Surprisingly, he was able to choke out a sentence. “Did you…. kill them… too? Like… this?”

John only increased the pressure on Sherlock’s neck and shook the man, making his head snap back and forth.

“Shut the bloody _hell_ up, Sherlock,” John growled as he released the man’s neck when his face started to go a bit blue. Sherlock’s hands shot up to his neck and rubbed it, gasping. He looked up at John from beneath his now drooping head and gave him a rebellious smirk.

It made John absolutely furious.

He bolted from his seat on the couch and grabbed Sherlock by the arms, lifting him up and bruising where his fingers dug in. “You’re such a bloody idiot, Sherlock!” He let go of his arms and pushed him down, parallel on the couch. John pounced on top of the dark-haired man, one hand gripping a fistful of dark, silken curls, effectively holding Sherlock’s head down and baring his neck, while the other hand was groping his through his trousers.

Sherlock didn’t even resist. He just lay there as John sucked and bit at the flesh on his throat and as he ground up against the man’s leg. John growled, disappointed by the lack of fun he was going to have to endure if Sherlock wasn’t going to play the game how John wanted him to. Looking up, John saw the detective’s face was blank and completely pale. So he was affected.

John smiled and gave a rough kiss to Sherlock’s lips before unzipping both of their pants and flipping the man onto his stomach. As he slowly pulled down the man’s trousers and pants, he felt his whole body stiffen.

Before John could go any further, his phone in his jeans pocket rang. He cursed and angrily yanked out the mobile, before furrowing his brow.

“Blocked number,” he mumbled aloud.

“…Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly.

John inwardly cursed and wondered if Sherlock had contacted his brother at some point. If he had, there would be hell to pay.

He cleared his throat and answered the phone with, “Yes?”

 _“I need to speak with you, Doctor Watson. There is a black car outside waiting for you. I will see you in ten minutes,”_ came the buzzing voice on the other end of the phone. John stared at his phone for a few seconds after hearing the click that let him know Mycroft had hung up. With a red-hot glare in his eyes he turned to Sherlock, who was looking over his shoulder with anxious fear plastered on his face.

“When did you tell him?” John asked in a knowing and demanding tone.

Sherlock shook his head furiously and said, “No. John I swear I didn’t. I would never.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t believe you. When I get back you better either be able to prove you didn’t tell anyone or be ready for me. Hear me? And if you run of and I find you, it’ll be worse than ever before,” John growled at the man and, once getting off of him, zipped up his pants, leaving Sherlock to tend to himself. He grabbed his jacket and walked outside and into the car that was indeed waiting for him, as Mycroft had said. He slammed the door shut and watched 221B slip past as the car took off.

* * *

 

“Good morning, Doctor Watson. So glad you could make it. I know you are a busy man,” Mycroft said with a fake, tense smile as John walked into the office.

“Yeah, well you didn’t give me much of a choice there, did you?” John replied with a fake smile of his own. ‘Does he know?’ he thought. If he knows, I’m done for.

“Yes. You know my methods. Have a seat, do get comfortable,” he said gesturing quickly to the only other seat in front of his desk.

John, after a brief moment of hesitation, took the seat and awkwardly looked around the room, at his hands, anywhere but the older Holmes brother.

“Something the matter, John?” Mycroft asked, piercing eyes calculating the other man.

“Hm?” said John, turning his attention to Mycroft. When their eyes met, John began to panic inside, afraid the man had figured something out. “Oh. Nothing. I’m fine. Just… what did you need to talk to me for?” he asked wanting to get to business that hopefully didn’t involve Sherlock. Unlikely.

“Yes, of course. I wanted to ask you about Sherlock’s behavior the other day. At the crime scene?” Mycroft answered with his hands folded together at his chin.

“What do you mean?” asked John, feigning ignorance. He knew exactly what he was talking about. The rape case that they didn’t even look at and their sudden exit of the scene.

“You know exactly what I mean, Doctor Watson,” he answered with annoyance twisting in his voice.

“Well, he was sick. That’s all. He was feeling faint and so I took him back to the flat,” he said getting up from the chair slowly. “And I’d like to check on him so… if there’s nothing else to talk about…” John made his way around the chair and towards the door before Mycroft spoke again.

“And the truth, Doctor Watson? Lying to me won’t do anyone any good.”

John froze. _Did he know? No. Of course not. How could he know? There was no way! But still…_ The sandy-haired man turned around with a confused smile on his face and did his best to pull off a lie to a Holmes. “Really, that’s it. You can call him up if you want. He’s fine though. He was just a bit sick the other day. I’m taking care of him, you can rest assured, Mycroft.”

The other man regarded him with intelligent eyes before flashing to boredom. “Very well. Tell him to be more careful around the corpses he’s always experimenting on.”

John smiled. “Of course.”

* * *

 

Once getting back to the flat, John called out to Sherlock angrily. “Sherlock! I need to talk to you!” When no answer came he checked the man’s bedroom, which was empty. He went upstairs to check his own bedroom as well, which was also empty. “Sherlock?”

Maybe he had told Mycroft and now he was hiding. That bastard. He would kill him. “Sherlock!” he rounded the corner in the doorway and suddenly saw something flying towards his head. Pain exploded in his temple and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.


End file.
